


Crow's Shadow

by DunscaitheBloom



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunscaitheBloom/pseuds/DunscaitheBloom
Summary: Once a Garlean engineer in service to the VIth Legion, a jaded bounty huntress is wounded while assisting the Skysteel Manufactory in their research and weapons development. Despite the gravity of her injuries, her past in service to the Empire looms overhead, and she must face the demons of her past or allow an innocent to fall in her place. However, she need not make the journey and face this looming shade alone, as she's joined by associates of the Manufactory.Revolves around original characters based within the canon and established norms of Eorzea and Hydaelyn as a setting.





	1. Repair Required

Hilda stares with a rare, dumbfounded expression on her face. Curled in a ball on her old, ratty armchair is a familiar, Lalafellin woman. Vavara had become a common sight around Foundation ever since the gates were opened after the Dragonsong war. Her work alongside the Manufactory and Lord Stephanivian was shrouded in some level of discretion, but it was no secret that she was an expert in Garlean-style magitek.

But the whispered words which surrounded the woman seemed an understatement, if her eyes were to be believed. It was rare to find Vavara out of her usual Company-style overcoats. The few times you would, she was in battle-ready armor instead. Now Hilda understood why. Her body, small and compact as it is, is almost entirely mechanical. Covered in intricate layers of dull, grey plates and brassy webbings of cogs, she looks not unlike the tools and machines of Idyllshire. Like clockwork muscles and cable tendons, her body is simultaneously relaxed and completely rigid. Here and there, where the metal fades, she can still see skin. Sickly, near-grey, and oddly textured like a doll’s porcelain, but still skin. Tangled in a blanket, eyes shut, and body snoring in strange, buzzing whirrs, it takes a few moments of shock to realize two more things.

First, Hilda hadn’t ever told Vavara where she lives. Nor had she given permission for the huntress to remain with her.

Second, one of Vara’s arms is missing. Just gone. A bare, brass socket lies exposed to the air where it would meet her left shoulder. Hilda glances around, but the limb is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a note on the end table besides the table. The messy, big letters on the page are of an immediately recognizable hand.

__ _ Hilda, _

__ _ Vavara was out testing one of Stephanivian’s new gizmos last night. Something went wrong, it’s all a bit fuzzy until we can look at the damned equipment, but it blew up in her arms. She soldiered on as well as you’d expect from her, but when we caught up to check on her we found her in shambles. We were all as surprised as you probably are - what with all the metal bits and all. Save for Stephanivian, that is. Seems he was already aware of her  _ _ illness condition state _ _ whatever you call that. She was adamant that she not be seen like this, so we needed a place to keep her where untrusted eyes wouldn’t find her. _

__ _ So I borrowed a key from Joye and let her in. She should be asleep until tomorrow morning, or at least that’s what Stephanivian says. He’s making replacement parts for her damaged bits, but he couldn’t give me an exact time to give you as to when they’ll be done. I’ll have Joye run over as soon as he has an estimate. _

__ _ I know it’s a good bit to ask of you, but we all owe her and hers a solid turn. This is a good chance to make good on that. Please look after her for a bit, and don’t let her run off and do anything dangerous, no matter how angry she may look. She’s too busted up, at least based on how we found her, to really argue with you.  _ __

__ _ Keep her safe for now, _

__ _ Rostnthal _

Hilda’s hands crease the paper, her eyes drifting back and forth between it and the sleeping woman. 

“Well shite. There went my plans.”

Vavara’s eyes open to the dim, flickering light of a nearby hearth. Her body hums with angry, buzzing pain. As she takes in a ragged, grinding breath her eyes scan around the unfamiliar room. She can feel the damage all throughout her body. She can feel the way her breathing hitches every three-and-a-half seconds. The way her right arm can’t rotate exactly as it should. The way her eyes won’t focus. Her ears are ringing, ever so slightly. 

There’s dust in the air, quite a lot of it. The furniture strewn about the stone room is old, patched, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The armchair she’s nested in leans to one side, one of the legs having been replaced by a few stacked stone bricks. The wood floor is rough, coarse, and looks like the kind which would give splinters just for standing on it. The hearth, a simple stone fireplace built into one wall, is surprisingly clean. The ashes are swept, the firewood is fresh. The fire is painfully bright. The heavy rugs thrown beneath some of the seating in the cramped, dusty living space are all torn and resewn. Her eyes trail to the bare walls, where a series of hangers stand.

Through blurred sight, she can see a leather jacket and a rimfire hanging in it’s harness. From color alone, it’s clear they’re neither Vavara’s old service overcoat or her custom revolver. A wave of cold anxiety washes through her, her feet finding the floor and stumbling towards the door. 

She only makes it a few feet. One of her legs crumples at the knee with a disheartening, metallic crunch. She bites her lip, forcing back a whimpering cry before it can rise in her chest. Instead, she takes a few gasping breaths, each huff sounding like a music box turning through broken cogs. Finally, she gets up the strength to push herself up to her feet again.

She dully registers quick, urgent footsteps coming from behind her. A steady, insistent hand finds its way just beneath her arm. The tense springs fused with half-dead, ceruleum-greyed skin have a sickening texture, like that of a corpse held together by staples and rope.

“You’re too hurt to be runnin’ about. Ye’d best come along.” Hilda says, hiding the way her throat closed in a queasy, silent gag. Vavara’s remaining arm twists back, trying to grasp at Hilda’s arm. It clicks and creaks, something inside the joint protesting with quiet, metallic groans.

“Hey.” Hilda pulls and twists her around. Their eyes lock for a brief moment. Vavara’s dull, foggy eyes sparking with a quick moment of recognition.

“Hilda?” Her voice is a surprisingly deep rasp. The grasping hand goes still, it’s steel claw-tipped fingers relax. “Is that you?”

“Who else? Let’s get you back to the chair.” They shuffle back to where Vavara woke. After grabbing an old crate and dragging it in front of the worn armchair, the two sit next to each other. Hilda sucks in a breath, and breaks the brief, momentary silence.

“I imagine things feel a bit rough. Been on the bad end of an explosion once or twice myself. Here, read this. It’ll do some of the explainin’ for me..” She hands the crumpled letter from Rostnthal to her, waiting quietly as it’s opened back up. Vavara’s eyes slowly, carefully track across each messy line of text. When she looks up to Hilda again, the other woman is already speaking.

“Joye came by earlier today, while you were still out. Said parts were being manufactured, but some things needed to be brought in from out the Holy See. It’ll have to get cleared by the Temple Knights, checked for contraband and the like. All said and done, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your uh… Parts?” She looks to Vavara for confirmation. There’s a single, quiet nod.

“Yeah, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your parts made. Till then, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back, I’d imagine. I know one of your friends has an arrangement with Count Fortemps, so if you’d prefer-”

“No. I’ve no intent on relying upon his charity. I have not earned it.” Vavara’s voice is a steady, rasping hiss. No malice or ill-will is born in the words, just a stubborn, quiet kind of pride.

“It’s not always about whether or not you’ve  _ earned _ anything, just-” The glare Hilda gets before she can finish is petrifying.

“Fine, fine. You can stay here, then. Can’t promise I’ll be here all day, but you’re resourceful, and so long as I get you a cane you could even get around by the looks of it.”

“No.” Vavara shakes her head.

“What? Then where will you stay?” Hilda says, eyeing her up with concern. Vavara’s face is a knitted, frustrated mess barely concealed by her usual stoicism. Her narrowed eyes, knitted brow, and curled lip speak volumes. It was rare for her to emote at all, let alone so clearly.

“I was only meant to be in Ishgard for two days, at most.” A strange, tense note rides in Vavara’s voice. Concern, or outright fear? Hilda hadn’t seen her like this since she’d returned from Ghimlyt, spending days on end beside the Warrior of Light’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken. Guilt-racked and uncertain. When her voice picks back up, it’s a mess of anxiety and fear. Each word comes out faster, not raising in volume but in intensity.

“I cannot stay here. I have to return.  _ I need to- _ ” She stops herself, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. With a clenched jaw, squinted eyes and a tense neck. she pulls a breath in. The tension does not leave her, resting on her shoulders and in her jaw.

“Thank you for watching over me.” Vavara says, opening her eyes to match Hilda. “I will need that cane. I have a journey to make. Please tell Stephanivian I will return to collect the parts when I am able.”

“Now hold on.” Hilda squares her shoulders. Her eyes unwaveringly stare into Vavara’s. 

“You’re barely able to see straight. It took you near a full minute to read through a half-page letter. You had to ask if it was me. I don’t remember looking much like another half-breed.” A potent frustration rises in Vavara’s body, but before it can exit in a shout, Hilda continues, Brume accent kicking into her words as she grows more insistent.

“I’ll be coming with ye. I’ve deputies with the Hounds for this exact kind of situation. And before you try and tell me I’m not, I’d remind ye that I’ve already seen why yer always either in battle-gear or a great-coat. Whatever secrets yer keeping still, ye can keep them. None of my business. But yer health? All the Hounds’ve had their skins saved by ye at least once, meself included. I owe you this much, at least.” Hilda stands as she finishes speaking, walking across the room to wear her jacket and rimfire are hung. She snags them in one hand, turns and gives a confident smirk.

“So let me just run and get that cane.”

She’s out the door before Vara can muster a reply.

Later that evening, the pair stand outside the Gates of Judgement. Vara’s shrouded in her overcoat, her usual brimmed cap pulled tight over her head, greying blonde hair spilling out of it in messy tangles. Beside her, Hilda holds the reins of two birds as they’re hooked up to a small wagon. Some traveling supplies, a small smattering of goods, and some specialized supplies Stephanivian rushed to prepare all sit in nondescript, covered bundles.

“You shouldn’t come with me. You have work here.” Vavara says. For perhaps the first time, Hilda notes how her breath doesn’t make mist in the cold air. She can’t help but wonder if her instinct was right, if the woman she’s known for years now, who’s saved her time and time again, is just a corpse pulled by metal marionette strings.

She casts the thought from her mind.

“And I’ve pressin’ debts to settle with you. It took no small amount of talking to convince Joye not to tell Rostnthal we were goin’. Else you’d have two peepin’ nannies.” Hilda’s forces a grim laugh.

“It’s dangerous.” The statement hits like a sack of bricks. There was little anyone within the Warrior of Light’s circle deemed worthy of such a warning. Least of all the woman who frequently gives him a run for his money. 

“Always is.” Is all Hilda can muster in response.

“You should stay. I don’t want you hurt.” The words come out slow, still rasping with that metallic hiss under the wind. Barely audible.

“I can’t protect you.” Vavara’s hand goes to the empty sleeve on her left. She looks up with foggy, dull eyes.  _ Were they always so dim? She’s one of the Dunesfolk, aren’t their eyes supposed to be like glossy gems? _ Again, she casts the thought away.

“Please. Stay.” Vavara’s words sound pleading.

“Eh- ‘Ilda?” A deep, rumbling voice smashes the growing anxiety in Hilda’s chest. Heavy, crunching footfalls grow louder from behind. Both she and Vavara turn to look at a familiar, salt-stained face.

“An’ it is!” Rostnthal reaches them in no more than three strides, his excitement plain on his face.

“An’ Vavara’s ‘ere too, I see.” He briefly glances to the cart, still being loaded.

“Ye headin’ somewhere?” It’s not really a question. His eyes fall onto Vavara’s. “Ye sure yer fine to be travelin’?”

She nods.

“Good!” He guffaws, a single loud bark of a laugh. “If yer good enough to be out-n’-about, then so am I! I’ll keep with ye. After all, it was cuz I was too drunk to test the prototype cannon that you ‘ad to. I get hurt like that, chirugeons patch me up over a couple nights. You?” He gives an awkward, knowing shrug.

“So, it’s my fault yer in this mess. I’m comin’.”

It isn’t really negotiable. Even as Vavara’s takes a rattled breath to retort, he’s already stepped up into the cart proper. 

The chocobo hand stands up from besides the cart,

“All good to go!” He shouts over the wind.

The three step up, and Hilda spurs the birds on towards Gyr Abania.

“Ye packed some booze, yeah?”

Vavara shakes her head. The groan he makes can be heard from the Gates.

Rostnthal’s voice echoes along the snowy paths of Coerthas, oft-untreaden paths suddenly as lively as a back-alley bar. He’s taken careful, measured swigs of his flask. He snagged some few supplies from Dragonhead at a mighty price, but he had very little considering the length of the journey. Sensing the growing tension, Rostnthal had sung every diddy he knew at least twice from his spot lying in the back of the cart. He’d sung the one about the slaver at least four times, and the one about the Admiral more than eight.

“So what’s all the urgency about?” Hilda’s question breaks through the bars of off-key song. 

“I left someone in the wild mountains, where I take my rests between work. He is unskilled, though his training has shown promise. An old enemy of mine resurfaced during the Ala Mhigan Rebellion, and has since been hunting me, and I him. Should I leave my student in one place too long, he’ll be found. And he’ll be killed.” Her words are clipped. Rostnthal’s singing stops.

“Y’took an apprentice? So the ever-cold Lady Ashenheart does have some warmth left in ‘er.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “An’ here I thought ye were all business and bad blood with the Empire. Rumors’d’ve me believe ye’d never have time for teachin’.”

Her gaze towards him could curdle milk. He just laughs his guffawing laugh, gently slapping her good shoulder with one hand.

“My strength comes at a cost, unlike that of my peers. It requires that I rest for long periods of time after difficult excursions. In recent times of repose, I took to training three such students in total. Two of whom have long passed beyond a need for my guidance, if they ever truly did need me at all.We have not spoken in some time, I have no fear for them. My hunter will not seek them. My current student, though, is untrained, reckless, young, and a danger to himself more than his opponents.” Her voice lapses in and out of nostalgia and strict concern as she speaks, eyes shutting as she speaks.

“Sounds like a handful of a kid. An’ this ‘unter. Ye think he might meet us there?” Rostnthal’s voice dips into a grim resolve.

“I do.”

“Care to share, or are we just going in blind as newborns?” Hilda says, eyes locked on the road and her surroundings. The sun is low, and it’s getting harder to see.

“His name is Llain. He and I were once… Compatriots. He is possessed of a strength similar to mine. I will admit freely, he is better suited to them than I have ever been. He took to steel, ceruleum, and magitek as a bird does to flight. He has done so more safely, and more efficiently, than I have. We have not crossed blades directly for too long, to make any assumption on his methods now as opposed to the man he once was would be dangerous. All I can say is this: A direct confrontation is something we will not win. He is a worthy and cunning foe for even the mightiest among us.” Vavara says. Each word is slow, methodical. Despite the obvious pain doing so causes, she speaks with clear, loud annunciation. 

“So we just grab the kid an’ make dust?” Rostnthal thumbs at the cap on his flask, glancing up at Vara with his good eye. She just nods. It’s enough.

Vara’s hand rests uneasily on the grip of her revolver. In her nostrils she can smell smoke and oil and flame. In her eyes, though snow and tree and stone race past her, all she can see is a burning Castrum and a vengeful shadow in the fire.

How simple her escape felt then. How powerful those first, few, small implants made her feel. Her clockwork muscles tense.

A tap on the shoulder shakes her out of the old memory. She looks up at Hilda, whose eyes are still locked forward.

“We need to go through the night, or should we rest?” She asks, tone all business.

“You rest. I’ll drive.” Vavara answers. Hilda just groans, before stepping awkwardly, carefully into the back next to Rostnthal and snagging a fur blanket from one of the many bundles.

Rostnthal waits a while, and then starts to sing again. Fewer old tavern diddies, and more of the songs fathers and Sea Wolf skalds would sing when night came calling.


	2. Carrion Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vavara, Hilda, and Rostnthal continue their journey across Coerthas and begin to enter the Gyr Abanian mountains. Along the journey, Vavara reckons with what may be waiting for them at the end of the road, and attempts to communicate that danger her allies are in by continuing along this path.

A cold, mountain spring cuts through the highlands. The water runs babbling over old, long-smooth stones. Along its bank, a cart is still. A pair of chocobos sleep, curled in on one another. Bright yellow feathers pool starkly against the grey and white of the highland’s snow-covered earth.

The campfire, dim and growing colder by the minute, pops and sizzles in the moonlit dark. Every few moments the earth rumbles with a deep snore from deep in Rostnthal’s chest. The old Sea Wolf is leaned up against the back of one of the birds, a canvas sheet thrown over both he and the chocobo. Hilda is beneath the cart itself, nestled up in a tight ball of quilts and jackets.

In the back of the cart, Vavara rifles through the packed supplies. She loads specially marked shells into her revolver. It’s reflective white metal glints in the moonlight. It has a mirror shine in the dead of night, it’s engravings doing little to break up the perfect polish she’s maintained. It is a slow process, painstaking with just one hand. The cartridges hum and vibrate in their chambers, the ether concentrate within nervously singing to her heightened hearing.

Six shots in each cylinder.

If he’s there, it’ll take at least fifteen of these to break his barrier. Even with aether-charged rounds, the inadequacy of her armaments hangs over her. Missing an arm means choosing between her spear and a firearm. Damaged as she is, she might not even have enough aether at her disposal to ignite the spearblade.The core nested between her lungs is pressed cold and stark against her heart, like a long-dull knife. Her soul, nestled within it’s crystal depths, aches from long-faded scars. Her whole body would be a treasure trove for him, secrets to decipher, power to steal. Weapons to wield.

Even then, measured against his life - her secrets, her safety, all things are cast into the pot.

She loads a spare cylinder with slow, committed strokes. It’ll take a long time to reload the weapon, even with this preparation.. She didn’t pick this hand, but she’ll play it till the cards are on the table. Folding was never an option, anyways.

  
  


Light falls on the small camp, the morning sun casting light into the narrow crevice beneath the cart. Hilda wakes up with a yawn. Her arms stretch across the dirt, eyes squeezed shut. She growls softly deep in her chest, and sits up. Her forehead slams into the wood with an audible crunch.

“Seven hells-” She snarls.

“Gyahah!” Rostnthal’s laughter echoes over the small glade, watching with a gleaming eye as she clutches her forehead.

“‘Ey, Ashenheart! I won! Ye’ owe me a drink when we get back!” His grin is audible, a chuckle reverberating in his voice.

“I never agreed to playing your game.” Vavara says. “Besides, I owe you more than a drink if we all return safely.”

“Heh. Humorless. What with ye’ hangin with the Scions lately, thought you may’ve lightened up some. Guess even they can’t get ye’ out’a that shell.” His voice is no less mirthful, seemingly unfazed by her chilled tone.

“A’ight, come get yer food. Breakfast’s done.” He slaps the side of the kettle, ringing loud and full. Still groaning and clutching a bloodied face, Hilda drops into a cross-legged sit besides Rostnthal.

They goad and poke at one another, the words fading into white noise as Vara sits atop the cart.Her eyes’ light dims, old, ash-soaked memories rising from the shadows of memory. A wave of nauseating nostalgia hits her in the gut.

“You not eating?” Hilda prods Vara with an empty bowl. The old, smoke-scented memories submerge into the dark again. 

“Not right now. I had hardtack before you two were up.” She pushes herself up to her feet, her arm stretching, slight shoulders squaring for a moment under the winter overcoat.

“I’ll get the birds ready while you two eat. We need to move soon.” Her footsteps crunch in the snow as she walks away. A hanging tension in the air slowly seeps into the air as she walks away.

“Y’know,” Rostnthal calls out, voice low and rumbling. “Ye’ still haven’t told us where we’re goin’. Or anything else of substance, really.”

“Yes,” She says as she hoists the barding onto one of the birds. She glances over her shoulder, eyes dimly glowing with an unnatural, cold light in the shadow of the brim of her cap. “I am aware.” The words are biting, dismissive.

“D’ye intend for us to go into whatever trouble is brewing blind?” His tone is calm and grim, his one, good eye locked on hers.

“I do.” She returns his gaze, ironclad.

“An’ if that means things get bloodier than they ‘ad to?”

“It won’t. I can’t protect you on the battlefield. Not in my condition.” She turns away, leading the chocobos to the cart’s front. She clips their barding in, the ‘coos’ and ‘kwehs’ of the birds giving her occasional pause to double check her work.

“So you won’t be there.” She says without turning. “I’ll be leaving you and the birds out of danger. When my student finds you, you’ll take him to Dragonhead.” 

“Wait, what?” Hilda pauses halfway between bites, eyes narrowing. “I came out here to help, not to be a damned taxi. You’re not traipsing off on your own, ‘specially not after all your talk about this fucker who’s hunting you.”

“You want to help?” Vara’s grip on the wood tightens, words turning venomous. “Then I’ve told you how. You want to die? Then go on, follow me after we part ways.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Hilda’s tone sours, “What’s your deal? We went over this on our first day out, and now half a week in you’re changing your tune? We  _ know _ it’s dangerous, we  _ get it.” _

She sets her half-finished meal aside, standing up. Her hands come to rest on her hips, Rostnthal’s eye moving to rest on her.

“We signed on for this. We knew it’d get bloody, we knew it’d be a close thing. Y’think we’ve not learned to read you? That we were blind to what we were getting into?” She says, defiantly staring down at Vavara.

“So you’re going to ride in and save the day? Vanquish the bad man with your shiny gun and sporty marksmanship? You think you have what it takes to stand against a man who’s  decided he’d rather be a demon? ” Vavara takes a deep, steadying breath. There’s something about the question which makes Rostnthal’s hairs stiffen. The skin on the back of his arms and back prickles. He’s still watching Hilda, a blooming anxiousness slowly taking up more space in his chest. He pushes the feeling down.

“Wouldn’t have stepped up if I didn’t think I could help” Hilda says, “An’ I may not be some vaunted champion of the realm like those you’ve been keepin’ the company of, but I-”

“You sound like a child. Too busy playing hero to see the danger you’re in.” Vavara’s chiding words cut through her momentum.

“What do you believe you are wagering? Your life? That in failure, you would die?” Her laugh is a single, wrenching cough. “This isn’t a battle of life and death.  _ I’d sooner shoot myself in the head _ than allow any of those ‘vaunted champions’ to face him. Even the Warrior of Light, no  _ especially the Warrior of Light. _

“He does not kill. He maims. He captures. And those he captures become another one of the Empire’s experimental weapons. You would not die, you would become a monster to be sicked on your allies, your friends, and your loved ones.

“So I will face him alone. And you two will ensure an innocent boy does not become a monster because my past came to call. And if after hearing that, you still want to be the hero? Fine. You can be like all the others before you and die like one, too.” Her voice nearly chokes at the end. Shoulders tense, she pushes out a hoarse, whistling breath.

“I’ll do what I do best. Survive. And whatever I have to do to make sure he gets through this too? I’ll pay that price. Worry about yourself.”

“Vavara.” Rostnthal says, leaning in. “What’s so important about this kid that yer so concerned about ‘im getting captured.”

“Nothing. He’s just-” She begins, only for him to hold up one hand to silence her.

“Ye’ never go this far ‘just because’. I’ve seen ye’ in the ‘eat of battle. Cuttin losses ‘as never been somethin’ yer averse to. Even with lives. So if this kid is a hazard to himself more than anyone else, I reckon ye’d try and save him, sure. But to be willin’ to train and tutor a complete greenhorn, let alone throw yerself into the fire for ‘im?? Doesn’t add up.”

He waits. His eye locked on her back, her greying, braided hair shifting with a breeze. Hilda glances between the two, silence bubbling and steaming with tension.

“He is Blessed by Hydaelyn's Light.” She speaks with a hushed admission, her voice accompanied by an undercurrent of choked, hissing metal.

“And from my observations, he has an aptitude for its power rarely seen. But he is young, foolhardy. I took him in because he otherwise would have found the Scions. Or they him. I refuse to see them make another martyr.” She glances back to the other two, over her good shoulder.

“His power will invite controversy and challenge, especially if he cannot wield it. And should Llain capture him, the prospect of an anti-eikon weapon imbued with the power of the Echo is a looming threat I cannot risk. If he can wield the Echo, if he learns how to use it to reinforce his sense of self and being, then he would retain his sanity through any kind of augmentation. Any kind of torment.” Her hand reaches up and rests flat against her chest, claw-tipped fingers scraping against the cloth and leather of her coat. 

“His soul could reside in even steel and crystal, and be unharmed by the process. But if he is captured before he learns to understand and wield the Echo, he could well become a weapon of terrifying power. An incarnation of death made manifest in steel and ceruleum.”

“I refuse to be the mother of death.” She says, softly, almost-inaudibly.

Rostnthal opens his mouth to speak, but the glare he receives from her in return stifles him for a moment.

“None of that changes what you must do. I trust you enough to determine your own path, if you will not heed my warnings. I will tell you what you need to know, even if it is not all you want to know.”

“No, it does change what we need to do. Whether you think so or not.” Hilda says, her confidence returning.

“That kid. What’s his name?” She asks, eyes fixed on Vavara’s.

“Tahve’ir.”

“Well, he’s going to need a teacher still, by your tone. So getting him out isn’t enough. I’ve got to make sure you both get out.” Hilda's confidence returns, a quiet swagger eking itself out into her tone.  


“And if you can’t?” Vavara says as the two share a long, grim stare.

“Then I get him out, and come back for you. You said he doesn’t kill, and I doubt he can make it back to Garlemald in a single night. So, we get Tahve’ir out, and if you get caught in the meantime, I’ll run back and get you out in the night.”

“Nah.” Rostnthal’s voice rumbles softly, quietly. “Ye’ ain’t got experience with that kinda work. I’ve ran with the yellow jackets and the like, bustin’ slave rings and smashin’ smugglin’ ops. If she gets caught and we have to pull out, I’ll go. An’ you’ll take the kid.” He looks towards Hilda, a quiet resolve glinting in his eye.

“Alright. Best not mess it up, y’old drunkard.” Hilda says, she cocks a nervous grin and playfully jabs his arm. He just chuckles grimly.

“So you won’t heed my warnings.” Vavara’s voice is distant, a kind of shrill, haunting whistle riding under the injured voice. “It always happens like this.”

“Chin up.” He says, crossing the distance between himself and her in a few steps. He drops to one knee, and rests one hand on her shoulder. He grips her softly, confidently.

“I’m not ignorin’ what ye’ said. We can’t win in a direct fight? Then we’ll just have to run ‘im ‘round the bush. Keep ‘im guessin’. Keep ‘im dazed. We’ll work on strategies on the way there. A plan for a direct engagement, for a hit 'n run, and for stallin' for time.” He takes a deep breath, and then stands. He climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Have faith.” He says, patting the birds with a solid, steady palm. “‘Ave faith, an’ all will be well. Besides. Yer not meant t’look so glum. Doesn’t suit yer’ image. Times like these, a snarl’s better.”

She just takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and nods.

She jumps up into the back of the cart as Hilda finishes dumping the last bits of the kettle, and scooping her bowl back up into one hand. The dinnerware sack lands in the back with a cataclysmic, chaotic crash.

As soon as her boots are fixed upon the wood, Rostnthal whips the reins and the birds kick up dust as they run.

The sun has risen again, and now sinks back low in the sky. Pale-red light streaks across the untamed mountains between Ishgard and Ala Mhigo.

A small shack with a sprawling, chaotic garden sits on a low, narrow plateau. Heavy, metal boots scratch into the wet, snow-melt fed earth. A man with sandy skin, a straight back and strong shoulders stands at the edge of the homestead. His hair is neatly, painstakingly pulled into a long, salt and pepper braid. It rests on his armored pauldrons, and hangs down to his waist. His eyes, a gilded, ember orange, take in the small, humble abode.

In one hand, he holds a thick, angular blade. It’s gunmetal edge reflects no light, despite the bright morning. Coarse and rough, a painted, sharp thorn of ink clutched tight.

In the other, he holds a stark, shining revolver. It’s pearly white metal casts myriad colors onto the ground around him, and up onto his own blackened platemail. 

In the light of dusk, his aura shines bright and ethereal around him. Dancing, half-there reflections in intangible glass.

He takes a deep breath, and cracks a cheery grin. His shadow stretches over the gardens in the evening light. He can smell the faintest hint of ceruleum in the air.

“ _Finally. Progress._ ” His smile is all teeth and ambition.


	3. Ceruleum Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vavara's past finally comes face to face with her and her companions. Smoke is in the air, and the shadow which has been looming over this journey makes itself known.

The linkshell hums with static in Hilda’s ear. Vavara’d mentioned it would be on the fritz here. Something about a machine she’d built down in her safehouse to prevent teleportation. It clicks and bursts once with a short, sharp noise.

“He’s here. In position?” Vavara’s voice is low, barely audible under the blanket of static.

“Aye - I’ve eyes on ‘im. Matches yer description to a tee.” Rostnthal grumbles through the channel, a tense undercurrent riding under his voice. She glances to where he’s hidden, in a thick, tangled bush besides a neglected garden. The sun hangs behind him, shrouding the brush in thick shade and blinding anyone who looks too long or too close.

“I’ll take a look.” Hilda adjusts herself, crawling forward towards the ledge of the rise. Prone and covered in a heavy, brown quilt, she’s blended into the undergrowth and scraggly, dusty ground. She presses the stock of the longrifle into her shoulder, her cheek squishing against the cold metal. Through the scope on top, she spots him. Dark armor, small vents shining with the telltale cyan of Ceruleum on his chest and calves. She brings the crosshairs over his chest, taking measured, even breaths.

He’s tall, older, and well-built. Best guess probably puts him a little under a head shorter than Rostnthal. His hair is long, pulled into a loose, long braid which lies draped across one shoulder and still has the length left to reach his hip. His face, rugged and deeply creased and scarred, is barely legible through the scope. His gaze sweeps back and forth, carefully considering the small homestead in front of him. A satisfied, knowing smile rests on his face. One hand, still clutching his pearly revolver, scratches at his beard idly. 

“I’ve eyes on him too. You sure I shouldn’t take the shot now? Before he notices you two?” Hilda whispers with hoarse focus.

“No. The barrier is active, whether you can see it or not. It will-” Static covers her words, “-until you can disable him and buy us time.” Vavara says.

“You broke up in the middle, could you repeat-”

“Ah shit-” As Rostnthal speaks, he man in the scope pauses, and turns towards the sunset. The moment stretches, tense and still.

“Think he’s seen me?” Rostnthal whispers. Hilda’s finger hovers over the trigger, the crosshairs locked over the man’s ribs. She inches forward on the ground, the scope of her weapon peeking just a hair out of the cover of the quilt. The glass glints in the setting sunlight.

Llain Rem Corvis squints, gazing towards the sun. Both his hands loosely grip their weapons, left thumb teasing the hammer of the revolver. His right hand squeezes at the release on his gunblade’s cartridges, pulling the lever tight enough to feel the pressure mount and then letting go.

_A clever man would ambush from where one’s vision would be obscured, where it is painful or hard to look. A wise man would lie in wait in a place which is difficult to reach and hides him regardless of circumstance. A cautious man would hide far away, where he could not be perceived, let alone be attacked. Which is she, in this moment?_

He casts his gaze across the fallow gardens again, away from the sun. It’s tempting to just barge into the little hovel at the center of the plateau, but rushing forward seems ill-advised.

He brings his revolver up, gazing down it’s sights at one of the old, musty gardens mired in shadow. His thumb pulls the hammer back with a solid, singular click.

_Let’s narrow her options._

“Where’s ‘e aimin’?”

“Away from you. Maybe be happy? Hopefully Vara can finish up before he tries to go inside. He’s being awfully cautious.”

“Wait- I… I don’t like this. Vara, ‘ilda, we might wanna-”

_Ka-_ **_THOOM_ **

The blast from the pearly barrel of Llain’s revolver rips up earth and incinerates the dried gardens. A singularly-devastating gout of blue flame, light, and broiling aether which twists and streaks out into the mountains. The roaring of the air as it shakes and burns like a welder’s torch is akin to a thousand mighty dragons screeching in unison. His arm kicks back into his shoulder with the blast. As the flames die down to a field of kindled rubble, he pulls the hammer back again. He turns towards the sun, aims just to the side of the house and-

“SEVEN HELLS!”

“Fury’s scorn, we- Vavara, if you copy we need to go now!” Hilda pushes her eye back towards the scope.

“Shit, shit! Rostnthal, you need to move, he’s gonna- No, too late. I’m engaging!” Her finger finds the trigger, the crosshairs land on his back, breathe in, breathe out and-

_CRACK!_

A shimmering wall of pearly light appears behind Llain, freezing a bullet midair in a shower of static and heat. He spins and drops to his knee. He takes a sweeping, glancing search for the marksman. His blade fixes itself to his hip as he brings his other hand to support the firearm.

There- A glint on the rise.

“Do _not_ engage- Get clear and ready the-”

_Ka-_ **_THOOM_ **

The first of the geysers of blazing ceruleum and aether strikes the cliff. Hilda rolls to her side and pushes backwards, away from the ledge. She doesn’t hear the second, honestly, she _can’t_ over the first’s roar.The second blast hits the space she was, not but a few feet away. The heat is scalding. The stone and earth rumbles unsteadily.

The shockwave which follows is worse. It knocks her further back, across the rise. When she hits the ground, she rolls and slides for a dozen yalms. Her eyes are bleary. Her ears ring and feel warm. Her lungs ache for air, and the skin on her face burns. She tries to force herself to her knees. Her legs shake as she pushes herself off the ground, and then give out when she tries to step forward.

Llain’s barrier snaps and sizzles from behind again, but as he turns to face this new marksman, he’s instead overshadowed by a man at least a foot taller than himself. He moves to leap back, but the big man has a running start. He lunges inwards, ducking surprisingly low, and catches Llain by his midriff with the crook of his arm.

Rostnthal heaves, throwing Llain back to the ground and pressing his weight down onto the Hyur’s arms. His bearded face is twisted into a desperate mask, teeth gritted, lips pulled back, eye focussed in on Llain’s.

“Not who I was expecting-” Llain’s voice is silken and warm, a bemused expression written across his face.

“No? Well-” Rostnthal says, his retort cut short.

“ _Repulse._ ” The barrier snaps to life for an instant, throwing Rostnthal backwards with a burst of static. As the old sailor lands rolling, he finds his feet and pulls his axe from his belt. Knees almost buckling, he lowers himselfinto a wide, fighting stance.

“A savage buccaneer? Wholly unhelpful.” Llain says, before snapping his gun up and taking aim again. As the hammer pulls back, Rostnthal lunges to the left of him and slides along the sun-baked earth. The blast narrowly misses over his right shoulder, air screeching, ceruleum flame blazing.

He widens his stance as he pulls himself up, cleaving upwards with his axe as he gets in reach. The blade slides across light and aether like it was steel, the barrier around Llain visible only for that phantom of a moment.

Llain’s ember-orange eyes narrow, snapping his blade back up in one hand and advancing. Their blades meet in arcing, smashing clashes. Each one drives chips into the edge of the buccaneer’s axe. Each arcing slash and piercing stab pushes him back a step or two. The ringing of the axe’s steel is uncanny, as though it were being struck with stone or petrified wood, not metal.

Rostnthal’s breath comes heavy and hoarse as he takes one step back, then another. Each clash of the strange blade and his axe comes with a shaking, exhausting pulse through his body. A strange sensation, something akin to waking to a wretched hangover, slowly seeps into his bones.

Rosnthal backpedals further, the dark-armored warrior before him pushing ever faster, each blow delivered with a controlled, careful force. Dully, the old seaman realizes none of these blows are being aimed to maim or kill. They’re aimed to be intercepted and blocked.

“Seven ‘ells-” He gasps for breath before leaping back several paces. Out of the black-armored swordsman’s reach, his off-hand rears up, bringing the loaded flintlock in it to bear.

It rings with a dual, cracking report. And yet, there’s a quiet spark of light in front of Llain, and the bullets are deflected off into the smouldering landscape. Llain’s steps forward are slow, confident. Evenly paced. His eyes burn in the dimming light, like the headlights of a gunship.

“A shame I didn’t bring any restraining bits. Didn’t think I’d need them. Didn’t think she’d sink to having someone else take her blows.” He pauses, his footsteps catching and slowing to a halt.

“What changed, I wonder…?” His gaze for just a moment, doesn’t land on Rostnthal, but almost pieces past him. His ember-orange eyes glaze over - An opening.

Rostnthal breaks into as fast a run as his aching body can handle, darting off towards the burning fields and the small, ramshackle building at the center of the old gardens.

His reaction is immediate, reaching quickly for the revolver at his side and bringing it to bear. His eyes lose that distracted glaze, locking onto his back with machine-like precision.

“Hilda! If y’er still up an’ at ‘em, now’s a good time!”

Her earpiece buzzes, full of static and screaming voices. She doesn’t hear his voice, she can’t through the ringing from the earlier blast. But as she pulls herself by her elbows and knees to the ledge again, crawling to her post, she sees Rostnthal break off from their attacker. She sees the man go for his gun. If he takes one of those blasts, he’ll-

She doesn’t hesitate, eye going to the scope. Her hands move quick - loading a bullet with a purple, crystal tip into the chamber. She guides the crosshair onto him, not any particular part of his body, just over his silhouette. Didn’t need to be accurate.

The longrifle kicks in her shoulder, her lungs gasping for air as the bullet snaps through the air and leaves a purple, tracing line across the smokey sky. The crack of the rifle and static of the round blend into a messy, crinkling sound. Like tinfoil being crunched and shredded.

Llain’s eyes turn at the same moment his barrier erupts in light and thunder, a shockwave throwing him to his knees. Lightning arcs on the barrier, the aether-charged round clinging to the surface of the magitek barrier like a tick.

“Anti-barrier rounds-” He swipes out with his blade, dislodging the crystal bullet and sending it scattering to the ground as a hail of shards.

“So she _did_ send you.” His eyes move from the shattered, purple clusters of shrapnel at his feet back up to Rostnthal. And then, his eyes snap back up to the clifface.

Hilda pulls away from the ledge after firing, her legs still won’t stand. They’re shaking too much. Concussion, probably. Vara’d warned that thing would get out of hand if they engaged, but this- 

A streak of light blinds her, and while she can’t hear the shot as it’s fired, she can feel it in the earth as it rumbles. It feels like at any moment the ground on which she lays might rip upwards and pull towards the sky in a blaze of heat and death.

But it doesn’t.

The shot had gone overhead, detonating midair above the rise. Streaks of fire and smoke drop onto the clifftop, setting the very sky alight. All bright cyans and azure shades. The raining death forces her to cling to the ground and keep pulling herself away, towards where the wagon was left.

Quietly, she prays to the Fury that she bought Rostnthal the time he needed to get clear.

Llain watches the fire for only a moment.

_It’ll keep the markman to ground, keep their head down for at least a few moments. Meanwhile-_

He turns his attention back to the fleeing buccaneer. The auracite of his blade had done it’s work, the old sailor’s pace was sluggish compared to his previous movements. Child’s play to catch.

He takes a few, slow decisive steps forward before launching himself ahead in a pounding sprint. His footfalls strike the earth like a drum. Sixty yalms quickly become fourty. Then twenty. The man glances back, a determined look in his eyes and his teeth gritted. Llain can see him grip his axe harder as he sprints away, knuckles white.

Ten yalms. Rostnthal reaches to his ear with one hand, trying desperately to listen to the linkshell still lodged there. The static is near-deafening. But there’s a moment where his brow shoots up, and eyes widen.

Five yalms. Llain raises his blade behind him in preparation. A single, crippling blow should do it.

He closes the gap, throwing himself the last of the distance in one leaping step. The blade arcs over his head, painting a thick, inky line in the darkening sky. The Roegadyn spins to face him, raises his left hand, and then drops it towards the ground.

The burst of aetherized rounds sears the air, smoke and dirt and dust clouding the space around the old pirate. Llain’s mid-swing and he won’t, no, can’t stop now. Besides, the old sailor doesn’t have the strength left in him for a full-strength assault.

The blade drops, a guillotine of darkened auracite. The air shudders with a sudden impact elsewhere, somewhere towards the run-down shack. Splintering wood and shuddering air. A shadow darts through the dust, sending it out in a wave of momentum.

There’s a metallic clang, the dust billowing outwards with the impact.

As the dust settles, Llain stares downwards, the blade hovering but a few feet off the ground. Twin, bright-green lights spark to life in the cloak of dust. Coat flowing as though still caught in a burst of movement, cap askew with the brim low over her brow, legs smoking around the small seams and vents built into her greaves, and single arm held up with gun in hand, Vavara stands between the two. His blade is caught against the trigger-guard of her revolver, grinding and sparking as their eyes lock on one another.

The gunmetal seams which run from down from her eyes like metal tears pulse with ceruleum light. The empty socket of her right arm sparks and hums, exposed brass snapping at the air.

“So it is-” He doesn’t get to finish, her eyes narrowing as she pulls the trigger. The barrel of her silver revolver roars with light and noise. Lightning arcs from the barrel, a lightning-charged round sticking to his defensive field with crackling thunder and snapping static.

He leaps backwards, gliding over the ground and landing a full dozen yalms away. Even as he touches down, she fires again. The rounds snap to and cling against the shimmering magitek barrier.

“Get clear. Keep to the plan.” She glances back at Rostnthal, a single determined look piercing him.

“Listen to me this one time. Please.” She says. She turns from him, a high-pitched whir building in the air surrounding them. It vibrates in his gut, in his ribs, like standing too close to a thaumaturge as they cast their thunder spells. There’s a spark of light outside the cloud of dust they stand in, Llain’s blade dully clanging as he swipes away the bullets latched onto his shield.

”Vavara-” He starts, voice hoarse and choked by the foul air.

“No time for a discussion. Get clear. _Keep to the plan._ ” He doesn’t see when she moves. But he does feel it. The wind bucks, all heat and static. It whips around him as he pushes himself back to his feet. A forced breath whistles out his nostrils, tension making the tendons in his neck pop. As though pulling a minecart, he tears his gaze away and starts to move. His steps are slow and heavy. She’d been right. Whatever Llain had been doing to him, it made just holding his ground hard.. All that’s left to do is to get clear, stay out of the way, and wait. Have faith. Keep to the plan.

Hilda pulls herself to the edge again, throwing the barrel out over the drop and wiping dirt from her eyes. She presses up against the scope. Llain is hard to miss, in the dark of the fresh night his barrier is bright as a bonfire. It sparks and flares every few moments, lightning arcing off of it onto the ground at his feet.

Around him, gliding more than running, is Vavara. A shockwave of air and aether follows in her wake, leaving a trough in the ground below her. Every movement is a smooth, arcing line with burning aether left as a trail of light for just a moment. She darts around him, drawing closer as he raises his blade to strike at the lightning-charged round. He shifts to face her, bringing his blade lower to strike at her. She’s out of reach again. It’s a careful, light-speed dance. Each testing one another’s pace, probing what they can and cannot do. But never do they fully engage or commit. Neither are willing to expose themselves against the other.

Hilda’s breath catches when Vavara stops, coat billowing as she slides to a halt. The two are somewhere around 30 yalms apart, each near-motionless. The wind whips around Vavara, and the light sparks and shines like an aurora around Llain.

“You’re slow.” Llain’s voice is barely loud enough to carry over the wind and lightning.

“It’s not like you, to fight while injured.” He looks pointedly at her missing arm.

He waits there for a moment, the two staring each other down.

The moment stretches, a long-held breath.

She absently glances to the chamber of her weapon. 

_Three used. Three left._

_He’s fired four times. Somewhere between one and three left, depending on what changes he’s made to the design since I’ve last seen it._

She bites the corner of her lip.

_Takes twenty-seven seconds to reload one handed. At this rate, it will take thirteen shots in total to break the barrier, assuming he’s not allowed to dislodge the lightning rounds again._

_The math doesn’t add up._

_Can’t keep this up forever. There’s what, maybe a minute of stored crystals left in the core. After that all that’s left is the closest source of aether it can find. Me._

“You’re running the numbers.” His voice is soft and distant, a distinct tone of nostalgia running beneath his words.

“Thinking of your options. I remember that face from Doma.” He waits again, his brows up, mouth set into a patient smile. But she’s not watching his mouth, or listening to his words, their eyes are locked on one another.

_Can’t reload fast enough to stop him from letting his barrier recharge, and there aren’t enough rounds in the chamber to take him out in one go. Even if I had the rounds, I can’t take more than a few hits. All it would take is one good swing to disable me, my weapon, or both._

“How long have you been running on empty? I can’t imagine keeping your body running has been easy since your skirmish with Lord Zenos. There can’t be much of what you were left over, after what he did.” He pauses again, seeming to measure the minutia of her response. Her gaze drops, the brim of her cap hiding the glow of her eyes from his view. The wind around her calms, ever so slightly.

“I remember seeing the footage. Remember thinking to myself there was no way you’d survive. Yet, here you are. Here we are. Same old song and dance.” His voice drops into a low whisper, a distant, whistling wind.

“You don’t have to live on the run, starving for ceruleum and crystals amongst savages who don’t understand the majesty of what you’ve built. What you’ve transcended.” Llain gestures broadly at her, a hint of adoration lingering in his voice.

“Come back - I can ensure the Empire forgets your treachery and cowardice.” His expression hasn’t changed, still that patient, long-suffering smile. That forgiving stare, piercing one’s very soul. The wind around her fades to a dead stillness.

But behind it, behind the offer and all it’s niceties, is nothing but teeth and hunger.

“Surely you can’t waste this much time. I imagine combat is draining for you now, not that you were ever suited to it. With your size and all, I mean. What do you say? Why don’t we bury the hatchet?”

She does not move.

He takes a step forward, then another. The persistent buzzing of the lightning round on his barrier fading into the background. There are keener prizes before him, and besides, it’ll recharge as soon as it’s allowed to fade.

He cuts the distance between them by a third in slow, careful steps. Like one might approach an artillery shell which landed, but has yet to detonate.

She looks up at him, stopping him mid-step. Her eyes are dull and dark, the seams in her artificial skin grey and lightless. Her voice, as she speaks, is metallic and thin. Like someone speaking through a linkshell which has a weak connection.

“You sound like a child.” She says. The words send a chill down his spine. His smile falters, but does not drop.

_Overconfidence? That’s unlike her._

“Too busy trying to play at being a big, strong hero to see all the blood you’re standing in. Or maybe you just don’t care.” She thumbs the hammer of her revolver, the wind slowly humming to life around her. Like a tear in reverse, a bead of cyan light runs up through the seams set in her face. As it reaches her her eyes, they spark, a faint light igniting within.

“Progress demands sacrifice. Besides, your hands are far from clean.” He says as his mask drops. His mouth twists down into a disappointed grimace. Vavara faces the sky as she laughs with a wide, mad smile. It almost feels like the sky laughs with her, the aether rising from a gentle hum to a trembling roar.

“Of course, they’re _absolutely stained!_ What, like I think I’m some kind of paragon? Of course not! The blood I’ve spilled, the things I’ve reduced to ash and dust. But at least I have surrendered to it, content to wallow in the filth. I at least try and clean my hands of that blood. They'll never be clean, it's true. But I've no regrets.” The wind shrieks as it spins around her, faint streaks of light pulling free and out of her body. Tiny flares and meteors shooting skyward. An aura of sapphire flame wreaths her, a wicked, snarling smile setting in on her face.

“All my burdens - they weigh as they should.”

His grip on his blade, knuckles white beneath the armor. He opens his mouth to speak.

Vavara blurs and vanishes from Hilda’s scope. The moment hangs, as though time had hitched and lagged. The ground shakes where she stood, the torched earth cracking and blowing away chunk by chunk. The wind cuts like blades, shredding past Llain The barrier breaks the worst of it, and yet he still braces himself against the force. The sound is like the crack of thunder, the earth and mountain rumbling in protest.

Hilds brings the crosshairs up and focuses them on Llain. Right at the center of his chest. He twitches, and spins to turn his back to her. She controls her ragged breathing, the crosshairs coming to a near-standstill.

In another sound-barrier-shattering dash of light and wind, Vavara strikes his barrier heel-first. He takes aim quickly, faster than she can move to get away.

_CRACK!!_

Llain’s barrier sparks from behind, a single bullet stopped midair by the barrier of light. His eyes shoot back for a moment, his attention split. The wind shudders, snapping and biting at him. As he snaps his attention back ahead, she’s gone, the smoke and cinders of his previous shots covering the plateau in a vast shroud. 

_With the wind twisting as it is, all of the plumes have shifted off course. If I can just figure out which one she’s hidden herself in-_

_CRACK!_

Hilda fires, pushes herself to her knees, and then her feet. It’s a laborious feat with how her head swims and sways. 

Like being at sea while drunk. Is all she can think.

She moves quickly, keeping low and running to new cover. She dives into the dirt as she gets a few dozen yalms from where she was. She still can’t hear, but the way her scope flares and the lens goes all white as the place she was erupts in flame, she knows he’s fired that hand cannon again. The brimstone and rubble rains down on her back.

She levels the scope, blinks the soot out of her eye, and breathes in.

Breathes out.

_CRACK!_

Lightning sparking, the barrier takes another hit. A quiet alarm plays in the back of his mind. It’s been active for far longer than he’d intended. He’d thought the sniper either incapacitated or gone to ground. They shouldn’t be able to stand, let alone take accurate aim. He scans the rise for the telltale glint of a scope, but the smoke clouds his vision even there.

As he looks, he presses out the cylinder, reaches into one of the pouches at his belt, and drags out several glowing, ceruleum-leaden rounds. Each one is loaded swiftly and carefully until all seven are slotted in. He pulls the hammer back, spots movement on the cliff, raises the sight of his weapon and-

She feels the wind shudder again. The way the shockwave hits is staggering, even from a distance. Like an airship moving at its max speed crashing. You feel it for malms, if you know what to look for. Nothing had prepared her for how _fast_ Vavara’d moved. She’d heard, certainly, that in moments of heightened tension and peril, she could break past contemporary limits. That in make-or-break moments, she could barely be seen. She hadn’t thought those descriptions had been literal.

A cold feeling seeps into her gut. She’d also heard what surpassing those limits cost, physically, the toll they presented. Muscles which strained so hard they snapped bones. Magic channeled so desperately, so efficiently, blood veins had been left either frozen or scorched. Healing winds so fierce the land would later become an untameable thicket.

She drops again, bouncing a bit as she hits the earth and drops her cheek to the stock.

_Count your bullets. Make each one matter._

Vavara can feel the aether around her, in her, pushing through her. It sings. It burns.

As she glides into place, Llain tracks her. He’s a good bit behind her, his gaze following the physical wake she’s left. But he’s piecing it together already, how to track her even at this speed. She snaps the cylinder of her weapon back into place, pulls the hammer back.

She breathes in. The wind and lightning and fire in the air surge as they hit the ceruleum inside her. It burns like venom, stinging at her veins and heart.

She roars.

Her body launches forward, a blast of wind and momentum carrying her past Llain again. He slashes out, nearly clipping her as she passes. His left arm raises his cannon, trying desperately to lead her as she moves.

They both fire.

A streak of blue, blazing light carries past Vavara, burning the air and tearing out into the night sky. She can feel the heat of the ceruleum flames on her face.

Three tesla-like points of light spark to life against Llain’s magitek field, the rapid cracks of both the report and impacts all lost beneath the rumble of his ordnance.

As soon as her feet touch the scorched earth again, it erupts around her. A crater blooms outwards, the world around her blurring as she launches towards him.

_That’s three. Two more. Deep breaths. Wait for the shot._

Llain watches her, at least as close as he can get. His aetherometer buzzes in his ear, crackling with uneven, dangerous readings. A chill runs up his back. He pivots with the next blast of wind and motion, swinging with all his might in a single cleave.

His blade rings in his hand, crushing into her midair. She ricochets off, careening into one of the burning fields. He feels the earth tremble as she smashes down. A satisfied, toothy smile creeps onto his face. With slow, deliberate steps, Llain begins to walk towards her.

Silhouetted in the flames, he sees her stand. Her arm, still clutching her weapon, dangles at her side. But it’s barrel is twisted and bent.

_So_ that’s _what I hit. All the same, at the end. Better to keep her intact._

Vision blurred, head swimming from lost aether, she feels, more than sees, the way her weapon is damaged.

_Can’t fix it._

She takes a deep breath. The aether stored up in her feels all but spent. Just fumes and dim fire. The buzz in her head is like an angry hornet’s nest.

_Keep to the plan. Wait to give the word._

Hilda’s breathing is ragged and uneven, the crosshairs shifting on and off of him. She can’t waver now. She _can’t_.

_Count the bullets. Two more. Keep to the plan._

Llain’s grin grows as he draws nearer, carefully watching the dim light of her eyes.

So she’s spent. Finally.

He steps close enough to see the smudging of dirt and ash and blue, tainted blood on her face. The way her eyelids flutter as her legs nearly buckle. His voice rumbles with satisfaction.

“Finally. Progress.”

“ **Mark.** ” Vavara’s voice is full of static over the linkshells, but it’s audible. Barely.

_CRACK!_

The sound of Hilda's bullet striking the magitek field is a meaty thing, like the sound of an armored body hitting the ground after falling five stories. A thin, hairline fracture spreads through the light. Llain’s eyes widen in blossoming realization and horror.

From the smoke behind Vavara, cloaked by the flame despite the pain, Rostnthal rushes out from the burning field. He slams his body into the barrier, presses the barrel of his flintlock into it’s hardened surface.

Both barrels erupt in light and flame and noise. The barrier splits open, the veil of light sparking and then immediately going completely dark. Llain leaps back, throwing himself away.

_Barrier’s down, gotta let it-_

The wind shrieks as Vavara lunges, a final burst of aether and light propelling her forward. The wind rips at him. Her hand finds his offhand, his revolver. Her knee catches him in the elbow. The metal of his armor crunches, his bones snap in a moment of blinding, white-hot pain. His hand loosens, and she’s gone. The wind rips his weight out from under him, pulling him down to his knee as he lands from the leap backwards.

_CRACK!_

Hilda fires again, the shot finding dirt as he moves. Her head and vision swimming, she pulls the bolt back, takes a breath and then she throws the bolt forward one last time. Just one more good shot now that his defenses are down.

_Ting-_

_Empty._

The dirt billows upwards as the sniper shot fails to connect. Llain pushes himself to his feet, a roar from Rostnthal demanding his attention. The Lominsan seaman lunges, his axe streaking forward in a silver arc.

Llain catches it on the hilt of his blade, stands, and steps into the Roegadyn. He sweeps his own blade low at the larger man’s calf. The larger man crumples to a knee with a shout of pain, blood staining his pants.

“And here I thought you ran.” The bitter draught in Llain’s voice rumbles in his throat and ribs. He raises his blade over Rostnthal’s head.

He doesn’t hear the soft, light footfalls behind him. The only warning he gets is when he’s thrown off balance, his legs swept out from beneath him by a tackle. As he hits the dirt his head strikes stone, ears ringing.

“Get clear!” He hears, though it seems distant for that briefest of moments. His body’s muscle memory kicks in, starting to stand again. Another shove, an anchor-like weight on his left shoulder presses him down. He looks up with bleary eyes, horror beginning to dawn on him.

He stares up at a barrel. Two lightless, dull emerald eyes stare back down at him. Vavara’s stained, snarling face blurred by the impact of his fall. He goes for the gun, right hand curling around the searing-hot barrel and pulling upwards. He feels it budge, sees a moment of mad, boar-like rage on her face.

_If she fires from here, I’m-_

He pulls upwards, away, he just needs to get it pointing at the cliff. It moves an ilm, then two. It’s no longer right against his head. Just a little longer. Clarity slowly returns to his head as he shakes off the dazing impact. He puts his shoulder and back into the struggle. He’s bigger, heavier. More strength in his back and arm than her. Another ilm up.

_Can’t hold him - but if he breaks free-_

Her mind races to the young man who’s by now reached the cart, of the old sailor who’s taken up arms for her, the dutiful markswoman who insisted on aiding her no matter the risk. Their lives, their deaths, their blood - all of it would be on her hands. Again.

She never breaks eye contact with him. But then, he sees her take a deep breath. Square her shoulders. Lean into the gun with her one, good arm. It drops back down an ilm. She closes her eyes, and breaths out.

“ _Go fuck yourself._ ” She spits.

**_Then, light._ **

The ceruleum-blue explosion racks the air. The shockwave knocks the air out of Rostnthal’s lungs. Hilda, for her part, sees it all through the scope. The losing struggle for the gun, Vavara’s moment of realization that she wouldn’t win one-handed. Then, a moment of desperate, furious resolve.

The light’d been blinding, but the blast hadn’t been a direct hit. Not as far as she could tell. She pushes herself up to her feet, using the empty longrifle as a crutch. She gets the ledge, briefly gauges it, and then slides down the side. The leathers of her gear blunt some of the sharp shrapnel and stone.

She staggers over to Rostnthal, watching as he swiftly applies a bandage to his cut leg. He shoves himself to his feet with a pained, loud grunt. Both turn to look at the blast crater where the ceruleum detonated. Their eyes track to where Llain and Vara had wrestled. The smoke lies thick and heavy over the ground, and it’s only getting worse with all the fires around the plateau. 

“Split up.” He says, breaking the silence. “We have to- She can’t have gotten launched too far.” 

Hilda nods.

**_Then, light._ **

A dim fire sputters and pops nearby.

A quilt is swaddled around her shoulders.

She can hear soft breathing, slow, quiet hums. Indistinct, near-inaudible chatter.

A single, soft ‘Kweh…’ from nearby.

She takes a long, raking breath. It sounds like a crushed music box being spun.

Her body does not ache - a concern in and of itself. Rather, she cannot feel much of it. It is numb. What she can feel vibrates and hums with static pins and needles.

As her eyes open, the world around her is blurry. Dark. The soft glow of stars light up the night. Old pines stand ominous and tall around her. Stretching ever upwards like old, tired giants. Snow clings to pale stone. She can see the shine of a stream nearby. Her back is to a mess of yellow feathers and old, stitched, stable blankets.

Before her, the fire she can hear is quietly burning. A faint snow falls, illuminated by the camp’s light. Around it, cast in warm oranges and yellows, three figures sit over dinner-ware. A half-elezen woman with dark hair, her head wrapped in gauze and bandages, one eye covered over with a white cotton patch. A bearded Roegadyn man with a leather eyepatch, a ramshackle wooden brace on one leg, a number of bandages on his arms, and a cast over one hand. His skin is pocked by blisters and burns here and there. Lastly, a Miqo’te man, seemingly untouched. He has a mane of maroon hair, golden, ember-orange eyes, and a sharp, angular face. Thin cheeks, narrow waist, and slim arms make him diminutive even compared to the woman he sits besides. He’s surrounded by half-used first aid supplies.

Vavara tries to move. It makes a horrid, screeching groan as small gears and levers inside her joints press up against one another to no avail.

All three heads turn on a swivel to look at her, a mixture of shock, then relief, and then concern washing over them in turn.

“Hilda-” She starts, before looking up without a single hint of humor, “I may need more than a cane on the way back.”


End file.
